


Jean Beloît doesn't hate Pierre.

by orphan_account



Category: The Broken Blade
Genre: ...DROOLING..., Damn turkeys, Everyone hates the Bowman, Gen, Hilarious chapter titles, I cannot tell if this is serious or comedic, I have talking fires, Short Chapters, Why are they screaming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 18:30:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6250786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pierre is very upset after La Londe's death. Thusly, he decides to take his anger out on him- revealing a side of Beloît that the Middleman had been blind to before.</p><p>Anyways, this takes place after La Londe dies. Like, right after.</p><p>Anyways, I had everything on my Google Drive, and so chapters will be coming in real quick- and then slow down a ginormous amount.</p><p>Anyways, this wasn't supposed to exist, but I felt like there was some "improvement" to be done between Beloît and Pierre's characters, and there just happened to be a welcome three week period in the book right after La Londe dies, and all we hear is that Pierre gets muscles. So... this happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pierre can't deal with IT right now.

La Londe was dead. Pierre could not believe it, but it was true. 

A river of sadness washed over him, as if the river that had swallowed La Londe and hadn't given him back was out to get Pierre La Page now too.

He fought to stay afloat above the dark, frigid water, but it felt like two separate packs of musket ball - filled bags were tied to each foot.

He saw all the men carrying out their duties, as though nothing had ever happened. But something did. And the only thing different was the silence.

Then he looked at Beloît.

The man was smiling to himself! A small, remorseful grin, as though he wished Pierre were dead too.  
Pierre bet the man was glad La Londe was dead!

Suddenly his anger, like a helping hand, appeared in front of him in his river of sadness, and he happily grabbed on, ready to be free of his guilt. He rose out of the river, and experienced a sudden clarity of thought.

It's Beloît’s fault, he realized. He should have died, not La Londe. Pierre stood up, now sure of what he had to do.

He normally would've been bothered by his stiff clothing (they had dried on his body sitting down), but the boy acted as though possessed, something his fellow voyageurs had noticed, and were now watching their youngest member intently.

He stopped at the log where Jean Beloît was sitting, staring at his feet. Beloît slowly looked up from his contemplation, his ugly scar ridden face impassive.

Pierre continued to stand, and stared down at the Bowman intensely. Beloît stood up, moving at the pace of molasses.

Though Beloît was taller than him, Pierre was not intimidated by his rugged, vile stature.

Pierre curled his hand into a fist, drew it back to about his chin, and swung, hitting the evil man in the jaw.

(WHACK!)


	2. Pierre yells at Beloît

Beloît staggered back, surprised at Pierre’s strength.  _ Well, I guess that makes sense. All the teasing i’ve given him, and I’d have learned how to hit too. _

Pierre drew his hand back again, like an Indian warrior using their bow, and struck him again. (WHACK!)

But when Pierre made another lightning fast strike, Jean could sense something was wrong.  _ The boy is angry.  _ (WHACK!)  _ Too angry.  _

When Pierre drew back again, the bad mannered Bowman caught his fist, (THUD!) And leaned his face into Pierre’s.

“Aww, did I make the little baby throw a tantrum?”  He inquired. Pierre’s face turned a splotchy red and he yelled:

“IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT!” 

And Pierre punched him with the other hand, even harder this time. (WHACK!)  _ I gathered that you're mad at me. It had something to do with you punching me,  _ Beloît mused.

“LA LONDE IS DEAD!” 

Pierre punctuated this by punching Beloît again. (WHACK!)

“HE WAS NOTHING BUT NICE TO ME! YOU WERE A  _ BULLY!”  _

Pierre tried to punch him again, but Beloît caught his other fist this time. (THUD!)  _ I _

_ I want to hear what our newest recruit has to say. Let him take all his feelings out now, instead of bottling it up. _ He paused.  _ You could use that advice yourself, Jean. _

“YOU SHOULD HAVE DIED! LA LONDE SHOULD STILL BE ALIVE! WHY ISN'T LIFE FAIR?!”  Pierre screamed, then kicked Beloît’s kneecap and turned around. (SMACK!) 

Only for a large, heavy hand to grab his shoulder and spin him around.  _ Right, little boy, you gone far enough. Life is not, and never will be fair. Life wasn’t fair to  _ him, _ why would it suddenly right it's ways for a little boy? _

“Why isn't life fair…?”  Beloît whispered, then continued, a little louder, to Pierre’s astonished face.

“A question I ask myself a lot, because really, life isn't fair. Not at all. Actually, it enjoys teasing emotions and love and whatnot out of people, then throwing it back in their faces. AND THEN IT LAUGHS AT THE RESULTS!!!”

Pierre, realizing the folly of his actions, and now scared and wary of Beloît’s sudden change in attitude, tried to back away, only for the Bowman to pull him closer, his voice getting dangerously soft.

“Now why don’t I ask you this: Would La Londe be proud of you now?”

But by now the bystanders were bored of the confrontation: Pierre wasn't hitting Beloît anymore.

“Shut up, Beloît. Don't want the boy falling asleep from a lecture.” Said Charbonneau.

“If he doesn't pass out from your stench first!” Y elled Bellegarde. The men roared. 

Jean gave them all a dark scowl, and then turned around, sitting on his log, facing away from the other  _ voyageurs. _


	3. Omigod I hope this isn't a cliché backstory

“It's okay Pierre. Beloît’s just still a little touchy.” Said Emile.

“don't take it personally.” Pierre looked confusedly at him.

“Touchy about what?” 

But Emile had already walked away, and gone under the canoe to sleep. I n a few minutes, you could hear loud, happy snorfling noises, in an almost mocking demeanor. 

In the previously grassy but now wet and muddy campgrounds, he walked over to Charbonneau, to interrogate him on what Beloît and Emile had meant.

"What was Beloît all upset about?... And why didn't he punch me back?” Asked Pierre, realizing he should be more worried Beloît was planning a more… permanent retort to Pierre’s outburst.

Charbonneau’s previously mild face now turned into a dark storm, and he looked at Pierre as though he pitied him for what he was going to say next.

“I suppose you do have to know. He is your uncle, after all.”

Pierre was astonished.  _ Jean Beloît, the most repugnant and cruel man he had  _ ever  _ met?! My UNCLE?! _

But... His parents had never mentioned that either they had a brother, especially a  _ voyageur _ for a brother.

But then, his mother never talked about any siblings, except to joke that her brother had quit school in third grade… might Jean be that brother? No. He couldn't be.

"You're joking.”

But Pierre had a nasty feeling in the pit of his stomach like an unsettling meal that his commander was right.

“Do you want to hear the story or not?”

“He’s my… What?! How come  _ no-one  _ bothered to mention it to me? Even my parents have never mentioned him… not really!” 

Charbonneau raised one eyebrow and asked:

“Do you want to hear the story or not?”

“Yes, but you can't just-”

“Do you want to hear the story or not?”

Pierre sighed, and kept quiet. Charbonneau cleared his throat, and, giving the Middleman a pointed gaze, began.

“Jean Beloît was once a happy man. He became a  _ voyageur  _ at around your age, and grew into a fine strong young man. 

He married an Indian, and they had one son: Luiz. Beloît raised Luiz to become a  _ voyageur.  _

Jean’s wife refused to allow her son to become a  _ voyageur  _ and they ran away while Beloît was wintering. 

Our Bowman returned to an empty house. With nothing to turn to, Beloît has remained in the service of the North West company for the rest of his life, trying to turn away young, innocent lads like you from the life of a  _ voyageur.” _

Pierre took a moment to digest this. 

“So… Beloît was mean to me because his ex-wife doesn't want kids to become a  _ voyageur _ ?”

It didn’t sound right.

“Almost.” 

The storyteller leaned closer.

“But he also loves it when they're cut up for the job.”

Pierre felt a light, fluttery feeling in his chest as a grief he didn’t know was there lifted. Beloît did hate him, but not for any grievances the Middleman might have caused him.

It made Pierre feel better now that he knew what the problem was. But then a realization and a dead weight fell on his chest. 

“You guys knew he was going to be mean to me? And you didn't stop him?” However, it appeared Charbonneau was not going to tell him much else, and rolled his eyes and growled at Pierre.

“Look, someone has to make sure the new kid is up to the job. Better him than me." 

Pierre nodded slowly, still not understanding- or wanting to. 

But, figuring he would need some time to puzzle together all the new information, took his leave and crawled under the canoe. 

However, sleep came easy, and before he had any time to try and process the information, he was secured tightly in slumber’s strong, but gentle grip.


	4. Beloît is talking to the fire/Pierre is being creepy

Beloît cursed, angry that he, the evil, leering, ugly, and rude  _ hivernant,  _ had revealed so much of his past. 

Sitting up, he stretched his stiff muscles, and turned around, putting on a disgusting face to ward off any other  _ voyageurs  _ still awake. 

Thankfully, it appeared they had left him to tend the fire alone. Probably so they didn't have to spend any time around him, after what happened with the La Page boy and La Londe.

It also gave him time to think by himself, his mind uncluttered by the noise and movement of the other men.

_ Of course, the youngling, as curious as they can be, has asked around. But,  _ voyageurs _ being  _ voyageurs _ , they will not reveal much personal information about one of their own. But then, the others did never like me. _

He sighed, and touched his face; in all its scraggly and hideous glory. _ I hardly recognize myself. I have put a mask on, to protect myself and others. But now I begin to fear it has become my real face. Can I still remove myself from my facade? And if so, would I really want to?  _ He wondered. Then paused. 

“Ahahahaha! Ahahaha! Can Man save himself… from himself? Ahahahahaha! You sound like a scholar - poet, Jean!”

_ And you know how far from the truth that is.  _ Ignoring stray thoughts, he grinned into the fire, watching it whisper merrily at him, it's scarlet flame tongues licking at his feet, inviting him in. 

_ “Your wife is here. Just like your son. And our young friend La Londe. But don't worry. I'm saving a place for your new little friend; Pierre La Page.”  _

“What do I have to lose? Anyone I ever cared for is dead!”

_ Except maybe La Petite.  _ But he stood up anyways, ready for the flame to burn away his pain, when he heard a shout.

“Jean! Jean Beloît! What are you doing?!”

It was the new boy, son of his sister: Mary La Page. He paused. 

_ Maybe there  _ is  _ someone to fight for. Maybe… _

He started to slowly back up, as if realizing for the first time that he had fed the fire till it had grew into an blazing tower nearly his height, and would be devastating to his body upon contact. Even now, he could feel it blister his uncovered skin.

But the inferno was not happy.

_ Nooo!!!”  _ It shrieked.

_ “Your loved ones! Aylen Beloît, who always sang with you before you both went to bed, and braided your hair with beads! Luiz Beloît, who wanted to be ‘just like his daddy’, and always would make little wooden forts in your honor! La Londe, who was the little brother you never had, and a loyal, brave canoeman!” _

Jean Beloît stared at the fire.

“They all  _ abandoned  _ me. I'm not going to die for them.” 

Then slowly, turned around, grabbed a large, iron pot from one of the packs, and dropped it on the fire, it crackling and sparking in protest.  But he had cut off its supply of air, and it died down to about a foot in height, than just a few glowing, angry red embers, and finally died.

He kicked the pot.

“Good riddance. May you  _ stew  _ in peac-... chaos.”

He looked over at Pierre, not bothering to scare him using a tale real or fictional to explain his previous actions.

He didn't even bother to glare at him.

Jean just walked right by him as though nothing out of the ordinary had transpired. He was about to crawl under the canoe, when he heard a young voice say;

“Charbonneau told me about your wife and son.”

The Bowman froze. Then he slowly stood up. 

_ That pork - eater will not mock me.  _

Beloît turned to face Pierre, and said quietly, as though not wishing the dead to hear:

“And I’m tell you to be quiet and mind your own business if you care about your life.”

He could see the boy slowly nod and swallow.

“Good night, Jean Beloît.”  And then the mysteriously Luiz-like Middleman went under their canoe, right next to Beloît, and fell asleep.


	5. Beloît drools when he sleeps

Pierre awoke to a wet, hot liquid on his face. He reached to wipe it off, but struck something hairy and squishy. 

He opened his right, lake blue eye a crack, scared to know what was on him. Jean Beloît, the most unhygienic man he had ever known, was clutching Pierre’s dirty shirt as though Pierre were a special toy or pillow, and was drooling on the terrified boy's face. 

His first reaction was to scream and leap away, and possibly take a couple dozen baths in a calm patch of the river. 

But there was something oddly calm about this gruff, mean, leering man in his sleep, and Pierre did not want to disturb this rare moment of peace and quiet, almost like throwing a rock in a completely clear and still lake, on a lethargic, cool autumn day. 

But apparently Bellegarde, their ill-mannered cook, did not share his fellow _ voyageur’s  _ ideals.

“BREAKFAST! Anyone who wants some get some now!”Pierre winced. Beloît’s ugly head shot up, hitting the roof of the canoe.

Muttering obscene phrases, Beloît rubbed his head, and glared at Pierre.

“What you looking at?"  _ One of the oddest moments of my life.  _ With a snort, Beloît started crawling out of the canoe.

“Why's your shirt wet? You drool on it?”

Absolutely stunned, Pierre stared, flustered and struggling to form a coherent phrase as Jean Beloît, the wickedest man who ever lived, cackled and crawled out from under the canoe.

Pierre looked around, marveling at how the canoe could be so empty, as if God didn't want any people to know Jean had slept and drooled on Pierre La Page. Pierre made a disgusted snort and tried to wipe the drool off.

Insofar, he had been unsuccessful.

_ Ahhh… wait. When was the last time Beloît washed his mouth? Nevermind, I don't want to know.  _ Crawling out from under the canoe, Pierre ran a hand through his sweaty blonde hair.

“When was the last time  _ I  _ washed my mouth?”

Shaking his head, La Page walked over to the pot filled with some sort of odd liquid, and was just filling his pot when a certain dark haired farm boy walked over and said:

“Lose faith in humanity?”

“what?!”

“you know.”

“no I don’t.”

Yes you do.”

“NO, I DON’T.”

“y’know… with Beloît…”

“I'm drawing a blank.”

“... when he drooled on you?”

Pierre started.  _ Nononono… _

“you… know about that?”

Emile Duval looked at him like he was stupid. Or smelled. Or both.

“ _ everyone _ knows about that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and next chapter we find out what Beloît is thinking...


	6. Beloît has ideas

“Hey Beloît! How’s your new pillow?”  La Petite teased.

The Bowman looked at him oddly, like he had grown another head. 

The other men chuckled, and in that instant, The  _ hivernant _ knew teasing was sure to come. 

_ What is he talking about? None of the  _ voyageurs  _ have pillows, me least of them. _

“you know, the new boy.”  La Petite continued. Jean still didn't understand. 

_ Why would Pierre be my pillow? _

“There’s something you're not telling me. What is it?”

La Petite guffawed, and all the other men had great big cruel smiles on their faces. 

Bellegarde was happy to chime in.

“ _ you know,  _ when you slept on Pierre and drooled all over him. His hair was a mass of nasty, sticky, slimy, smelly, and mangled slop!”

Jean was shocked. 

_ This is impossible. I would never do that. They’re lying. They  _ have  _ to be.  _

And Pierre’s hair didn’t look that awful. he was standing over there, in the corner, doing… what  _ was  _ Pierre doing?

“I…  _ WHAT?!  _ What sort of deranged lunatic told you  _ that?!” _

Stepping closer, a dangerous, malevolent, and probably a deranged lunatic himself, Jean Beloît hissed:

“Because I have a few  _ “choice words”  _ and a fight to pick with  _ him.” _

A couple of the newer  _ voyageurs  _ were scared, but Charbonneau, La Petite, and many others remained annoyingly defiant.

“No one  _ told  _ us. All we needed to do is look, and we got an eyeful.” 

“Bah!”  Growling and muttering, Jean Beloît stomped off grudgingly.

“We will never let that go.”  Commented a cheerful La Petite.

“Like we’ll never let go that one time he fell in a hole. Remember? He was chasing that turkey that stole his hat and fell in?”  Laughed Commander McKay. 

Bellegarde, the quiet cook, chimed in:

“That was a  _ big  _ turkey. Couple of those, and I would’ve liked to put ‘em in a stew.”

“Hear, Hear!” The other men; hungry, cheered. 

The disgruntled Bowman kicked at the ground, shuffling leaves and pine cones on the floor. He spat at the birds that dared to come close.

 Sitting down on a handy rock, he thought of ways to get back at the men for their brutal teasing. 

An enormous turkey puttered by, and Jean paused, his dastardly mind at work. After a few minutes, he stood up tall and smiled, cackling to himself.

“I have an idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we have no Idea what Beloît is planning. Actually, I do.


	7. Beloît is so wierd

After a long day of paddling, Pierre was ready to fall asleep immediately.

However, there was the meal that needed to be cooked. And eaten. Pierre was happy to do that. 

But apparently Beloît had planned ahead, and now the brigade was staring at a pile of turkey carcasses, shiny brown feathers softly moving in the slight breeze. 

Pierre didn’t know what the noseless man was planning, but it wasn’t any good.

Beloît had killed several enormous turkeys (some larger than the one that had stolen his hat, according to a delightful Bellegarde, though what that turkey would want with Beloît’s cap no one knew), and was currently giving them to Bellegarde for skinning.

“I brought you a present!” Was declared cheerfully. Bellegarde looked at the possible meal disdainfully and sniffed it.

“Gimme that.”

The cook quickly swiped the closest of the fowl away from the greasy man and started to pluck it. 

Soon the some other  _ voyageurs  _ had started helping.  Eventually the bloodily stained men were done, and shapeless pale bodies lay before them. 

Suddenly, the largest turkey  _ twitched. _

“Ahh!”  Screamed someone. 

His fellows laughed.

There was silence as the  _ voyageurs  _ stared, some terrified out of their wits but unwilling to let any of their peers know.

Then the skin of the fowl jerked around, and it soon became evident that something  _ inside  _ the carcass was trying to get out. 

Some of the men started praying. 

Others were quietly chuckling. 

La Petite, after some encouragement, walked up to the horrifying bird and drew his knife, gently put it down as if to slit its stomach, but then the skin  _ burst  _ in a hellish display of blood and scales. 

Several more men screamed. 

Several more men guffawed.

A snake head slithered out of the hole, and it’s lean, gray-green body glistened as it rose to meet the massive  _ voyageur  _ before it. It's skinny pink tongue flicked at him. 

Everyone held their breath, not daring to do so in case the snake might attack their respected fellow. 

Everyone- except Beloît. 

“Hahahaha! That's just a lil’ Gardner! Hahaha! You should see all your faces! Hahahaha!” 

The prankster cackled, facing his head towards the sky as the angry and disbelieving  _ voyageurs  _ looked onwards.

La Petite’s giant fists were clenched, and his eyes narrowed, but they loosened when the madman threw him a wink and grin, and the victim joined his deep, jovial laugh with Beloît’s high, insane one. 

After a moment’s pause, the rest of the scared men joined in. 

But long after everyone had stopped, the Bowman was still cackling.

Bellegarde made a stew out of the fowl and everyone was joking around and teasing each other now. 

But Beloît was still laughing. 

Leaning over to Pierre, he whispered:

“Too bad they don’t know about the critters I put in the other birds.”

Suddenly, One of the younger Middlemen on La Petite’s Montreal slowly pulled a cockroach exoskeleton out of his stew and stared.

“AAAAAAAAAH!!!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so wierd.


End file.
